Second Chances
by Arcana66
Summary: France proposed to England three years ago, and he thinks it's time to try again. AU. A one-shot for England and France.


**France and England: Second Chances **

His name was Francis Bonnefoy.

France had always been a rather friendly country, for his often perverted mannerisms. He was whole-hearted, an excellent chef, a maker of fine arts, a talented performer, and a perfectionist if he did say so himself. France was a man of expertise in the area of l'amour; he knew what he spoke of when it came to love – always. He was tender and caring, emotional and rational at the same time. There could have been many times France would have proven this; he really was a good man, for all that his reputation said. He was the country of love. And yet the Frenchman's heart was weak, after all of the one night stands and forgotten lovers in the city of Paris. And this was because France had one problem.

His name was Arthur Kirkland.

Francis had first realized he'd fallen for Arthur long ago. The country of France had always had tense relations with the country of England, and the two often went to war over the simplest little issues. What bothered France even more was how they resolved their problems; apparently making love was a temporary compromise in their near-constant turmoil. And to top that, France had realized that he desperately loved England, and even after trying to admit it, he still felt himself a failure. England had thought it a simple ploy, and said no, even after all that they'd been through…

Francis had proposed to him. Told him how desperately he wanted him. And Arthur had simply denied his love, and walked away. Said it was for other reasons, this proposal, that he never would truly love him. They were excuses for release of tension upon one another, and that was all they ever would be. Francis spent a year in silent tears…

How long it had been since Francis had said anything to Arthur? After the first failed proposal, how much more would it take? The elder blonde was tired – he enjoyed their little sessions of forbidden desire, but he was aching for something more. Not once when they'd engaged in intercourse had either of them bothered to mumble an "I love you" before drifting off to sleep…

And Francis supposed something…it was time to try once more.

_**~X~**_

It was a cold afternoon in early April, a day on which the tendrils of sunlight barely stretched out to touch the earth's surface. The ground was still in its half-frozen state from the previous winter months; light dew had coated the ground. The sphere of sun hung haphazardly in the air, seemingly knowing its rays were only just making it to the ground on this day of days. Yes, this was exactly the kind of day it had been nearly three years ago, when Francis had first proposed his undying love to Arthur. And Arthur, well, he'd been quick to refuse. But this was simply the type of day; and Francis was expectant of a better outcome.

The Frenchman lazily wandered through the streets of London, watching the people with a hint of amusement and light in his eyes. He was a country, and would never fully understand their more rational emotions or thoughts, as countries felt what their people could a thousand times over. Francis paused to analyze this fact before continuing his walk along the cobblestone street. He knew perfectly well that he had time to kill before his meeting with Arthur – he had planned it as such. The air was rich with the scents of flora just coming into bloom, the fresh-baked breads from the venders (despite the cooking being done by Englishmen), and the essence of life itself; the Frenchman thought himself at home even in the other's capital city.

Francis rounded a corner, and walked into the central garden of this particular square. With careful fingers outstretched, he ran his hands through the tall stems and petals of the rose buds on either side of him. This was spring, a time for new life, and in the Frenchman's mind, it was also the perfect time to try his failed attempt at love again.

There was a fountain up ahead. Francis recognized it as the place of his prior proposal, and immediately hung his head upon walking by it. Even so, the massive monument to his failure could not be completely ignored; no, Francis found ignoring the symbol an impossible task. Blue eyes gazed upon its scratched surface; the couple depicted at the top of the statue stood holding hands, mocking him. Francis swallowed the mountain of curses in his throat, and came to terms with the fact that he'd always be drawn to this place. Unfortunately for him, a sudden wash of tears came over the Frenchman, tears he tried to silence and hide as best as he could from the prying eyes of the world around him. The memories came back in flashes, each panel recaptured in that moment as the visions played out before his eyes…

_Francis and Arthur strolled through the gardens, moonlight barely illuminating the broken paths they walked upon. The clouds hung above them, teasingly, threatening to unleash a barrage of rain. Time seemed too slow; Francis had been well aware of the fact for the past hour, which had been spent in nearly complete silence. The Englishman seemed slightly annoyed at the fact they'd been walking around the same garden for this long a time, but he offered no verbal complaint. The soft pitter-patter of the first raindrops falling from the heavens greeted them upon their arrival at a large statue; dedicated to the very subject Francis wished to talk about this evening. The moonlight blazed brighter, casting long shadows into the pools of waster that had collected in the fountain's basin. _

_Hesitantly, the Frenchman jumped over the tiny stone wall and into the knee-high water. It sloshed around beneath him, twining between his legs like liquid shadow. Francis glanced up at Arthur, and stretched out a hand for the Brit to take. He accepted cautiously, but only stood on the edge of the wall, walking about the fountain's circular base while still clutching onto Francis' hand. They walked for about ten minutes, circles becoming slower as they walked, and occasionally exchanging glances of riffled emotions. At long last, the Frenchman turned to him and smiled, hopping up onto the wall as well. For a long moment, the two stared at one another, as though trying to deduce something about the other they hadn't found out in the past several thousand years of their existence._

_Francis had thought the words would freeze in his throat the moment he tried to will them forth. Arthur would never expect such words to come from the Frenchman's mouth. And yet the slightly taller blond bent down, resting his forehead against the Briton's; Francis began to speak, ever so softly. "Angleterre…I've been wanting to tell you something for a long time now…" The Briton jerked his head back, chuckling in amusement at the Frenchman's rather emotional expression. "And what exactly is that, frog?" he retorted, his own joking expression quickly fading as Francis took his wrists. The Englishman blinked, waiting, watching as his companion drew a sharp breath. Green eyes widened to the size of small plates, mouth hanging open, as Francis dropped to one knee on the ground, gazing up at the taller Brit, who still stood upon the wall. "F-Francis, what the bloody hell do you think you're-"_

"_Arthur Kirkland." Sparkling sapphires were turned pale, almost ghostly and luminescent in the moonlight. The Frenchman brushed the blonde strands of hair away from his face, drawing a second sharp breath. With his right hand, he nervously dipped down into his shirt pocket, drawing forth a tiny black box. 'Oh God, oh God, oh God no,' Arthur thought. The Brit trembled, trying to think of various reasons for this situation to arise, but he could only think of one, much to his discontent. He clenched his fists as his sides, gritting his teeth nervously. "I..." Francis cleared his throat. "I know I've said it before…and you only thought it a joke. But Arthur… I love you…I…I can't go a day without thinking about you. You mean everything to me." Blue orbs quickly clouded over in desperation. "I know you think I'm just a stupid French whore, just like everyone else does, but Arthur, I want you… and only you. And that's why I've got to ask you…" Francis stumbled again, closing his eyes before opening the tiny black box, presenting an emerald ring which could match the very glimmer of light in the Briton's eyes. _

"_Arthur…will you marry me?"_

_The Englishman's heart surely had stopped beating for a moment. His cheeks were burning red, of this he was quite certain, and an uncomfortable knot had formed in the pit of his stomach. "You…love me?" The Frenchman quickly nodded, and Arthur closed his eyes before hopping down from the fountain wall. "Bloody git," he mumbled, looking away. "Let me tell you something." Arthur turned, staring the other man straight in the eyes. "I don't love you. In fact, I hate you. You're the worst thing that's happened to me." The Brit practically spat, stomping on the ground; the skies opened up, the rain coming down without hesitation now. "You've never loved me either. It's just stupid lust. You're a bloody idiot for not realizing it, Francis. And you are a whore. Who could ever really love a whore like you?" God, it hurt Arthur to say this, more than he would have thought it would. But it had to be done, didn't it? "You are __**nothin**__g to me." The clouds turned bright, crackling lightning shooting through the black skies. Having made himself clear, the Englishman turned, and slightly awkwardly walked from the park. Francis remained on his knee, staring into the space that Arthur had once occupied. He couldn't feel his heart, although it clearly pounded in his chest. _

_After a long hour of just sitting in the storm, Francis finally realized he'd been crying the entire time. And he figured half of the puddle in which he knelt must have been his own tears. But he couldn't tell… everything was a blur. Everything was numb…_

_What had he done wrong? What had he done to deserve this?_

The barking of a dog summoned Francis back into reality. He tilted his head to the side, catching a glimpse of the scruffy brown creature that had so graciously freed him from the curse of his past. As though in thanks, or at the very least, in acknowledgment, Francis nodded his head toward the beast before continuing on his walk. The streets seemed suddenly empty, devoid of the normal passers-by. The Frenchman strolled until he found a street vendor selling flowers. The short, rather stout man looked up at Francis, brown eyes shining with delight. "G'day sir!" he offered, tipping a tiny black hat. The Frenchman beamed back at him, circling the stand in search of the perfect flower. When at last he found a bunch of red roses, he selected the brightest and tallest of the bunch, drawing it from the bucket of water in which it sat. He turned back to the vendor, who was counting coins in his lap upon a tiny stool.

"Sir," Francis began, drawing out his wallet. "How much for this single rose?" The seated man immediately gazed up, examining the flower for a short moment before speaking. "That one y'say? I think… 5 pence should do it." The Frenchman pulled the money from his wallet, providing the coins to the vendor before walking away, rose in hand. "Thank you, sir. Have a good day~" Francis called over his shoulder. Blonde hair bounced as he practically skipped through the cobblestone streets, earning several confused glanced from assorted company. With glimmering blue orbs he gazed back at them, analytical, almost like a shepherd watching his flock. But the people of London were of little interest to the Frenchman, for the prize was the nation himself. And that was exactly whom he was going to see now.

For a moment, he considered turning back, rose in hand, smile long gone from the previously bright expression which he wore. But Francis knew this had to be done now, if it was ever to be done. He let out a quick, exasperated sigh, and turned onto the street where the Englishman's home was located. Here, the houses were all of the most refined quality; shimmering metals blended with the old, traditional brickwork of London made for a spectacular sight to any passer-by. That was, with perhaps Francis being the exception. Having seen this street in all of its gloom much too often, it'd lost its magical appeal to the Frenchman's senses long ago. He simply trotted down the cobblestone path, not sparing a glance to any of the houses except for the one belonging to Arthur.

The Kirkland Manor was famous throughout most of London; it certainly was the grandest of the homes here in the city. Decadent tapestries hung over the best masonry one could ever lay eyes on. A large, English rose had been inlaid in the cobblestone just in front of the manor's iron gate. Its petals spread out in white and gold patterns, different from the surrounding grey and red stones. At the center, a "K" had been painted with some sort of metallic paint. Upon looking up, one witnessed the entrance to the mansion. Vines of beautiful flowers climbed the lattice archway one had to pass through before actually approaching the Englishman's door. The windows were all decorated with black iron designs; not a single one of them lacked stain glass art of some variety. The lawn was meticulously kept, as though someone had trimmed the entirety of the grass with nothing more but a pair of scissors, on their hands and knees. Knowing Arthur all too well, Francis assumed he very well might have.

Francis pressed his way through the iron gate, which was never locked, but appeared to be so to any mortal. He walked up the steps, reveling in the majesty of the manor; he allowed his eyes to drift as slowly as he did through the front lawn. Eventually reaching the mansion's front door, Francis laid his eyes upon the large brass knocker attached to it. It was shaped too, like an English rose, but constantly shifted as the sun hit it at different angels. It was truly marvelous, but the sight had been ruined one day when the Englishman had tried to convince France that the reason it looked as such was because of one of his spells. Despite the memory causing a momentary flinch, Francis reached for the knocker, and pulled it away from the door before letting go, allowing it to meet the wood with one refined _bang_.

"Coming, coming!" Francis heard Arthur scurrying down the steps, which he knew were located practically directly behind the door – one of the building's main flaws in architecture. He chuckled, and leaned against one of the columns which supported the intricate stone slab over the Brit's front door. Arthur came to the door a moment later, swinging it open and patting down a mess of blond hair with his other hand. He was dressed in a pair of black slacks, and a white button-down, which was, true to form, buttoned to his neck. Francis smiled at the man, and offered him the rose, and a tiny bow. Arthur took it, his eyes wide.

"Good afternoon, monsieur." Francis straightened himself, leaning casually against the column once more. His expression brightened, just a slight touch, when he noticed the Englishman turn his head away slightly to sneak a sniff of the rose. "And how are you?" he asked, the cheery tone bringing a slight frown to the Brit's lips.

"Great, good, fine. Why are you here?" For once, the Briton looked honestly confused, as he was not expecting company today; Francis usually called before he stopped in for a visit. "You could've called if you were coming to visit," Arthur said pointedly.

"I'm so sorry, mon cher. It must've slipped my mind," Francis replied coolly. Arthur tensed; Francis knew he hated it when he called him that. _Mon __cher_. Those two words seemed almost poisonous to the Englishman. Although he usually avoided using those two words whenever possible, or at least in Arthur's company, Francis thought that today was a good time to use them more often.

"Mmm, of course," Arthur replied sourly. "Anyhow, what is it you want?"

"Oh, just to stop by. It's nearly one; I know you have lunch sometime around now. Would you care to accompany me to the new café across the way?" Francis winked once at Arthur, taking a step back on the stairs which led up to the Brit's home.

"I… I suppose it couldn't hurt. Why in London though? You usually do nothing but complain when we eat in my country." Arthur was right, Francis would agree. He detested English food with every fiber of his being, but that was the only drawback he could think of to living in England. Not that he would ever tell Arthur that.

"I guess I just felt like eating out today. Besides, it's a new café… the food can't be too terrible if they're hoping to attract customers, oui?"

As Francis later discovered, the food in a new café was often worse than all of the surrounding ones. He nearly choked on his first bite of some mysterious, grey, foot-shaped food object… which he later found out was chicken. But he ate the entirety of his meal without too much complaint, which seemed to greatly impress the Englishman, who was thoroughly enjoying the same dish Francis had ordered. He picked the last bite up with his fork, and gulped it down, before returning his gaze to the Frenchman across the table. "Am I getting this one? After all, you were abnormally well-behaved," he joked.

"Non, I will have nothing of the sort."

And without further discussion, Francis paid for their meal, and the pair left the café.

The majority of their day was spent window-shopping, walking through gardens, and talking about the large amount of work Francis was preventing Arthur from getting accomplished. Somewhere in the mix, the Frenchman had also been chased by a rather large, black dog, which supposedly belonged to the British police, who had suspected him of "suspicious behavior".

"Well, now that I'm not as suspicious as you think, could you call your dog off, monsieur?" Arthur was suffering from a fit of laughter the entire time. No other could make him laugh as France could, even if the reason for that laughter laid somewhere with the Frenchman's stupidity.

"Well, I'd say you've bloody well done it this time," Arthur said, approaching Francis with a chuckle. The Frenchman did not appear to be in a joking mood, which simply sent the Briton into another fit of laughter. Eventually, Francis determined that he had to take matters into his own hands, and kicked the puddle closest to him, sending water flying up at the Englishman's face. Arthur responded with a glare, and suddenly the two were running through the streets of London, trying to get in a jab at the other whenever possible.

As entertaining as chasing each other around the city like toddlers was, it was also extremely tiresome. Arthur, panting, willed Francis to wait up. However, he soon discovered he had no reason to, as he'd somehow passed the Frenchman, who now stood near a bench, also catching his breath. The pair received many strange looks from the people who walked calmly through the street, but not a soul dared to comment. The two rejoined each other on Francis' side of the street, and walked into a large garden. That garden; the very once which still haunted France.

"Arthur…" The Englishman cast a sidelong glance at his companion, who was at once looking very concerned. Arthur saw no reason for him to be, and determined that something was bothering him, and helped Francis over to the side of a large fountain. _That _fountain. Francis's eyes burned at the sight, and he tried his best to alter his gaze. The Englishman blinked.

"What's wrong, Fran-…" Suddenly realizing where they were, Arthur too began to feel uncomfortable. This was the place…_that place_… where Arthur had refused Francis' marriage proposal. "France…" He gingerly pressed a hand to the elder's shoulder, urging the Frenchman to look at him. "Francis, just look at me…" Still, the other did not respond. "Look, if you want to talk about something, you git, look at me fir-" The Englishman was stunned as Francis lifted his arm, and pushed him away. Frightened even, as the Frenchman looked at him with demon-like eyes, blazing blue and filled with insecurity. The older man turned, and hastily began to walk away. "Wait, hey, Frog, I just wanted to talk!" Rushing after the Frenchman, the Briton tripped, and made a grab at Francis' jacket as he fell. The two tumbled down into a heap of multi-colored fabric and a tangle of limbs.

"Angleterre, I really don't want to talk about this right… now…" At once, their eyes locked, and Arthur saw it. Tears, streaming down the Frenchman's face. He gasped, and reached out with a hand to move long, golden locks from Francis' face. Francis caught the hand, but did not notice a small box fall from his jacket. Moving to stand again, Francis left the Englishman sitting on the frozen earth, staring at the tiny box which had escaped the Frenchman's pocket.

"Francis?" The Frenchman froze, and felt for the package. It was… _gone. _He turned quickly, eyes widening in fear at the sight before him. Arthur sat there, clutching the tiny black box to his chest, eyes watering.

"Oui, A-Angleterre?"

"Is this what I think it is?" The Brit held the box out, watery eyes glazing over as he focused on it for a long moment.

"W-what do you think it is, mon cher?" The Frenchman asked, tasting the bitterness in his own words.

"A…a ring?" When Francis nodded, Arthur felt the knot in his stomach double in size; it felt as though a brick had suddenly been dropped into his gut. So many sensations were spreading through his body, and the Englishman could not even begin to go about describing them at this particular moment. "Y-you did…you were going to… you wanted to try again?" He was no longer concentrating on Francis' answers, only on the mental debate which raged within his own head. "You were going to give me… a second chance…" he whispered, not quite audible to the Frenchman.

"Please, Angleterre, j-just…I'll take it back, and we can say it… it never happened." He looked down; Francis felt the pain stinging at his chest amplify as his companion glanced back up at him.

"Yes…yes, you will take it back, you git." Arthur did his best to dry his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket before returning his gaze to Francis' eyes once more. "Or at least… you ought to take it back…"

"Arthur?" Francis froze; was Arthur…_kneeling_?

"You gave me a second chance." He was smiling, something Francis was not accustomed to seeing. "And I thought it's about time… I repaid you… for everything." With a soft pop, the box opened to reveal a dazzling sapphire ring, which matched the tone of Francis' eyes perfectly. The Frenchman was baffled; he could have sworn the ring was gold and emerald… not silver and sapphire.

"Y-you're actually g-"

"You really just don't know when to shut up, do you, Frog?" Arthur cracked a grin at his French companion. "Now, you can talk when I ask you this, but only to say one thing."

Francis' heart stopped beating for a few seconds, those which seemed to last forever.

"Francis Bonnefoy, the Frog who I despise with every fiber of my being, the man who I love to hate, and hate to love…" He paused, watching the Frenchman's silent intake of air. "Will you m-marry me?" The sentence was disgustingly sour as it rolled off of the Englishman's tongue, but it needed to be done.

"I…Angleterre…"

"Oh, just say yes already and do the cryin' later." They both smiled warmly at one another.

"Oui, Arthur Kirkland. I will marry you."

"Bloody right, you will." The Briton leaped from the ground, and threw his arms around Francis' neck. His grip was strong, and Francis returned the hug by wrapping his arms around the Englishman's waist and lifting him off of the ground. "Hey, hey, I said nothing about picking me up! Put me down, frog!"

Francis smiled.

Some things would never change.


End file.
